Castellum Sanguis
by MasterofMasyaf9000
Summary: A tale of love and sorrow, the fate of the Belmont Clan has been sundered many ways, across many timelines. This is but one of them. Some things familiar, yet others so very,different. Darkness still threatens to subsume humanity, A powerful vampire still desires their extinction and the Holy Whip is still the sole vanguard of man. All else,remains in the fickle hand of providence.
1. Prologue: A Prelude to Darkness

Castellum Sanguis

Sunset had begun to fall over the charred carcass of the Manor Belmont, the greyed stone bathed in orange, the vestiges of sunlight painting the crumbled statues a blood red as it melted into the once beautiful greenery of the gardens was now unkept and overgrown, nature attempting to reclaim the rotted, blackened timber, and marble for itself.

Vermin and other animals scurried through the dense foliage, oblivious to all the world about them, with the sounds of crickets and hoots of owls the only noise to be heard.

The sudden crunch of parched grass under heavy boots was enough to startle the creatures away, scampering deeper into the undergrowth.

A young man tall in stature with shoulder length grimey flaxen hair, barely into his second decade emerged from the shadows of the surrounding foliage. Clad in an odd mixture of armour plates, leather and chainmail, a long sword hung loosely from his left hip. And on his right, a coiled chain whip, renowned as legendary among the people and clergy of the nation, known to most as the Morningstar. A burden heavier than even its wielder could ever know.

Simon Belmont ambled towards the ruined remnants of his forefather's home. He knew not how long he had been wandering. It had been perhaps three weeks since he had bested the evil Regina Sanguinis herself after she began her war anew upon her revival , destroying her castle, and watching it crumble before him, and with it, her dream of extinguishing mankind. He had travelled since then, walking wherever the winds took him. Time became an inconsequential blur to him, recalling only flashes of violence, of swinging his whip as though a man possessed, and breaking bones of cultists and creatures of the night alike.

Many did not know whether to call him heretic or hero, as fear of the young Belmont and word of his deeds spread amongst the leaderless hordes of the Queen of Blood, and the dark cult of humans who worshipped her, but in his heart of hearts , the blond warrior knew the truth, even if he would not let it pass his lips. He was lost. Everything in his world had been shattered by a horrifying revelation from the Mistress of the Castellum Sanguinis during their battle; that her blood flowed through his veins. He did not wish to believe it, thinking perhaps they were merely the dying words of an unholy abomination designed to sow doubt. But he could not shake the possibility that it _could_ be true. After all, he knew next to nothing of his true family or of his bloodline.

He had asked of course, growing up, and his aunt Nora and Uncle Ren would always be happy to regale him with tales of his grandfather, and his exploits, speaking of him as though he were a dear friend.. But whenever he tried to bring up his grandmother or his birth parents, they would mysteriously change the topic, or distract him somehow. The desire to know the truth had always burned in him, but it had been one he had thought he had quelled, by focusing on the present and the here and now the malevolent vampire had dredged up more of the questions he had ignored for so long, and he had no way of ascertaining the truth. So he naturally, either by malignant fate, or purest chance, eventually arrived at the one place he felt might have it. The place his family once called home.

Simon stood at last under the pale light of the moon, in the centre of the ruined gardens of his ancestral home, staring blankly at the slanted marble memorial stone before him. He absently noticed a golden dragon, chiseled into its centre. Odd. it certainly wasn't the crest of his clan. And the design…Eastern. He made no mistake of it. His Uncle Ren would often tell him tales of his homeland and Simon had seen similar designs in his books, even if he never did learn to read the strange language within. The question was, why was it _here? _Perhaps an allied friend of his grandfather? Or perhaps even his parents?

He had grown used to the dirty stares at the crest on the back of his cloak from various townsfolk in the rare moments he left the wilderness for civilisation. He could care less about their feeble minded opinions. It was all he had of his family and, his name. A gift from his dear adopted aunt and uncle, and a memento of his grandfather. That... and his most treasured weapon. His hand unconsciously tightened around the hilt of his Morningstar whip, a silver chain glinting in the moonlight, his thumb absently tracing the angel winged crossguard. All he had, all that was left of his name, of his family…

Simon's strength left him then, his resolve finally evaporating as he fell to his knees. Tears began to fall down his face, staining the bone dry soil.

Was he to be damned along with his kin for all eternity for carrying the blood of a unholy demoness? Was his blood destined to walk alone, hunting the darkness for a thankless world, doing what no other could, reviled by man and monster alike? Rage boiled in the young man at the unfairness of it all. The cruelty of fate, and the sheer injustice that had been thrust upon him and on his predecessors.

_THWACK!_

Fist struck marble, as he lashed out suddenly in a fit of fury, and immediately regretted it. He fell back on his haunches, clutching his injured hand and swearing profusely, using language that his aunt would certainly attempt to wash his mouth out with soap for saying aloud, much less shouting.

As he was preoccupied, he couldn't be faulted for not noticing that his hand was bleeding. Or the very same blood trickling down the stone and staining the golden dragon, who's jade eyes were beginning to glow.

What Simon _did_ notice, was the rumbling of the ground. He quickly rolled to his feet, one hand going to his whip, and the other for a bottle of holy water. If the night hordes wanted a fight now, Simon would be more than happy to oblige them. But he didn't sense any presences near him. Turning back to the stone cautiously, he was amazed to see the large stone slab sliding backwards, leaving large trenches in the soil. Looking towards the space the memorial left behind, he was confronted by a hollow chamber, and as he took a step towards its edge, two blue torches suddenly sprang into life, revealing the first steps of a staircase.

The wielder of the Morningstar did not know what possessed him to take that first step, but something within his soul told him that it was here, in this place, that he may finally receive his answers.

Gingerly, he descended, creeping forward, his senses slowly beginning to adjust to the meagre light thrown on the walls by the azure flames of the torches, the faint smell of sulfur…

Without warning, the memorial stone above him suddenly slid into place, and he heard the unmistakable click of a lock sealing him within. Cursing, he drew his whip from his waist and descended further into the darkness .

Dust flew upwards with every footstep, dancing in the firelight.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and torchlight, more details of his surroundings became known to him. The spiralling staircase under his feet levelled out into a vast stone, circular chamber, and tattered white banners hung from the walls, barely illuminated by the torches below. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of golden embroidery on them, but the shadows were far denser above, and Simon was well aware he would never make out precisely what adorned the banners from where he was. In any case, he had more important matters to attend to.

After what could only be an eternity, the young Belmont reached the bottom of the stairs. A large wooden beam lay in his immediate path, having fallen and being now trapped between the end of the staircase, the railings of the lacquered bannister. Hunching over, he was able to fit his large frame through the modest gap and on his knees, crawl forwards without disturbing the heavy support. He climbed to his feet, and continued on his way. But as he began to take stock of the room, torches on the walls all blazed suddenly into brilliant light startling him and forcing him to momentarily cover his eyes. When he again opened them, his mouth dropped in awe.

He was gawking at a family portrait, hanging above a substantially sized desk. Easily the size of a fully grown man, in an expensive looking golden frame. A man, a woman, and what could only be presumed to be their children. Regardless, the painting had clearly seen better days. The edges had begun to peel, and there were what looked to be scorch marks on the canvas, warping the forms of the subjects of the artwork somewhat, And as for the woman's face, the painting had a long jagged slash through that area, almost as if it had been struck in a fit of rage by a sword or other sharp implement. Unconsciously moving closer, he could establish some of the woman's features, at least those untouched by fire or lacerations . Fair skin, ashen-black hair, and a familiar diadem around what he could see of her neck. Though, try as he might, he couldn't place it. But it pulled Simon's attention no less.

And then his eyes moved to the man next to her. Two pairs of dark cerulean eyes, framed by dirty blonde hair met one another. One immortalised in oil and canvas, the other, of flesh and blood. Simon knew without a doubt, what little there was, that this was his own flesh and blood.

"Who were you?"

He whispered, sotto voce.

"His name was Jaune, Little One. And furthermore… I believe I have something for you?"

An accented voice resounded as if from nowhere, catching the young Belmont off guard. He whipped around rapidly, but saw no one.

"Show yourself, Scoundrel!"

He roared, having long since surpassed the point of peak frustration. He had no desire to be toyed with tonight.

"Peace, Sir Belmont. I am not here to fight."

An well dressed aristocratic gentleman , clad in a fine black suit, coattails and emerald vest, appeared in a flash of light before him sending the young man off his feet and falling on his hindquarters.

He scrambled to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the interloper, who looked…. amused?.

"I've been waiting for you, Simon. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

The gentleman bowed, doffing his silk hat in greeting, seemingly ignorant to Simon's bewilderment and anger. To any other, a costly mistake. But the newcomer was nothing if not fearless.

"How do you know me? Who are you?!"

"I know far more than you realise, and even more so then I am able to speak of. And as for your second question.."

He took a moment to remove his hat, momentarily revealing short silver hair, absently brushing specks of stray dust from it vigorously.

"Let's see. _Last_ century it was Ozpin. Three before _that, _was Ozma, and I think I went by Ozymandias for around 50 years at one point, because of a fool's bet I had with S-... But Ah! I do most sincerely apologise. You may call me Saint Germain."

"You aren't one for straight answers, are you? Do you simply enjoy irritating me? Or is there _purpose_ to your inane prattle?"

Saint Germain laughed jovially.

"I can see why you might think that. But I truly am being as forthcoming as I can be. In any case, that isn't the_ entire _reason I'm with you at present. I'm here at another's behest. Pausing, he took a more serious tone here. "Someone who loved you very much."

Another's behest? Loved me very much? Uncle Ren had been gone nearly a decade now, and Aunt Nora had certainly never mentioned someone who looked like this. Besides them, he didn't really have anyone else fitting that description. At least, that he knew.

Simon refused to allow hope to swell within him just yet. This Saint Germain would not be the first to claim he had some obscure knowledge about his lineage and be revealed to be a lying dog seeking his coin..But maybe _this tim-._

"Well, this simply won't do!"

The Belmont suddenly snapped back to attention to see Saint Germain observing the room, and clicking under his breath. Broken timber, loose debris, collapsed bookshelves , splintered chairs and other wreckage were strewn around the area haphazardly. The only intact piece of furniture was the desk directly below the portrait behind the young warrior.

.

With a huff of aggravation, the eccentric man tapped the end of his cane to the stone floor.

"Domine tempus e converso!"

Simon was about to question what tripe the annoying older man was spouting _now,_

When disbelief struck him again.

Before his very eyes, rotten and gnarled wood began to morph into fresh lumber. Stone fissures along the floor pulled themselves together as if they had never been present, and he was forced to duck out of the way of several pieces of flying rubble as they flew to their various places of origin. The once destroyed remains of luxury tufted chairs arose, assembling themselves as if by a master craftsman, as did the various bookcases, tomes flying onto each shelf almost as soon as each layer could be repaired.

Just as suddenly , the man in the silk hat brought his cane to the ground again, and all was brought to a stop. A look of mirth crossed his face upon turning and seeing Simon's expression.

"Ah. much better. One always feels better after a spring clean, no?"

Simon was speechless. Shaking himself free of his awe, he again angrily rounded on his companion.

"What manner of sorcery was _that?_

"One can do anything if one has enough time, Sir Belmont. Now then. Before we become engrossed in bandying words with one another…."

With that, the gentleman pulled a chair and offered it to him.

He could only nod dumbly, bonelessly sliding into the proffered chair.

Germain sat opposite him, smoothing his coattails, deigning to wait until Simon recovered before continuing. After all, a man like him had all the time in the world.

Silence reigned for a few moments before the man in question eventually found his voice.

"You said you had something for me?"

"So I did! So I did! How forgetful of me! Where is it…? Here we are."

Reaching into the inner pockets of his vest, Germain produced what appeared to be a leather bound book and held it out to the man opposite him. As he carefully took it, from him, Simon noticed a sheet of paper protruding from it. Removing it gently, he read.

"_To my beloved son. Walk in the path of the light with all of my love, and without fear... For you are never alone..._"

Could this be left to him from parents? Or another parlour trick?

"That book contains the entirety of your grandfather's journal, as well as that of your mother's."

Germain paused, allowing the young man to process the implications of what it was he was being told.

"It was her wish that I bestow them upon you."

"Indeed?" Simon crumpled the note in his fist in frustration."And how precisely am I to know you aren't merely some charlatan? That these writings are not merely convincing forgeries?"

Germain smiled in amusement. He did not wish to appear rude, but the young blonde's skepticism reminded him of times long past, and of another, similar to him, yet different in many ways. The thought made him smirk nostalgically.

"And to what end would I seek to deceive? What would it possibly gain me?"

Simon paused at that. Whoever this stranger had volunteered this information, well before he himself had offered anything in exchange. If he was a cheat, he was a poor one. Though whether he could be trusted remained to be seen.

Sensing his silence as leave to continue, the affable gentleman did precisely that.

"But if you do indeed doubt, then perhaps this may assuage them."

Reaching into his pockets again, he held something out for his inspection. An antique silver pendant, inscribed with a crescent moon, with what appeared to be diamonds lining its diameter. A beautiful article of jewellery to be certain, but it was rather difficult to see how it validated his words.

Simon snorted derisively.

" And _this_ proves your point? I should think you shall have to try harder to gain my confidence, stranger."

"Oh, I wasn't finished quite yet. Turn around and look at the painting, if you would."

"Why?"

Germain sighed. If ever he had a doubt that the man before him was descended from _him, _then they were indeed dispelled. The childish obstinance and stubborness could belong to no other.

"Humour me."

The younger man growled and muttered under his breath, doing as he asked.

" Now what?"

"Have you noticed the children's attire?"

He observed the young twins at their parents' side. A boy and a girl, both sharing his fair skin and blonde hair. Perhaps it was merely the painter taking artistic license, but their eyes seemed… crimson? Moving down, he finally found what Germain wanted him to see.

Snatching the pendant out of his hand, he held it up to the portrait. And so it was, that the silver in his hand, and the silver around the little girl's neck were one and the same. Not even he could deny that. Then would that mean that this girl was..?

"Your assumption is correct. She was indeed your mother. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Her name was Selene."

Simon sunk back into his chair, the fight sapped out of him. Finally, he had a name. Selene. But the more he thought about it, the more question it raised. What was she like? Why did she give him up? And how was this related to the Regina?

The only man who could put his mind to rest sat before him, and the Belmont was finally ready to listen.

"Now then." Germain removed his hat, placing it in his lap. "Shall I continue?"


	2. Chapter 1: Of Bloody Beginnings

Year of Our Lord: 1191 AD

* * *

Night had fallen at last over the Valachian forests, gripping the valley like a deathly shroud. The yellow crescent moon lit the traveller's way, shining through the shadows of leaves and branches above. And with darkness, the hordes would assuredly follow.

Yet, there was a quiet calm in the valley, as the horse covered wagon slowly came to a stop at the peaceful clearing. It had been raining hard since late noon, and it had certainly been difficult for the former squire to coax the horses into action along the muddy slopes and uneven terrain. It was a small miracle alone that the wagon itself had held together as long as it had, having had numerous close calls where one or more of its wheels became lodged in the silt and mire, robbing the journey of hours of progress. The roar of the stream did little to assuage his unease. Whilst it was loud enough to cover his arrival to most, he feared it would mean little to the supernatural senses of the creatures of the night that prowled these lands.

Releasing the reins, the cloaked man moved under the canvas shelter of his wagon, glad to at last be out of the rain. The two stallions responsible for pulling it grew restless, sensing something unnatural about their surroundings, and pawing the muddy ground in discontent. But their master paid them no mind. Instead, upon lowering the hood of his drenched cloak , he reached into it and withdrew a letter, the paper worn and smudged from tears and bloodstains. For what must have been the hundredth time he'd done so for the past month, he began to read, deaf to the roar of thunder far above and the drumming of the downpour.

"_My dearest Chevalier…"_

Despite his ever present worry for his longest and dearest friend, he could not help but muster a smile at that. She always did have trouble in using his god given name, and whether it be borne her desire to fluster him, or a mark of her friendship, he knew not. He continued, expression souring as his eyes met the elegant cursive script he knew so well, even rushed as it was.

"_Words cannot express the sorrow I feel when I think on how we parted. And how I may never be able to set things right. My time runs short. Legions of the damned have laid siege to this place, likely seeking my research on the twin stones. I fear it is only a matter of time before they breach the defenses. The townspeople speak of hiding in the catacombs and tunnels underneath us at night, and the priests and holy men do the best they can, but I fear it will not be enough. The dead already number in the hundreds, and the few who survive the raids are either taken away to the vampire's Lord, or worse, left behind to turn into flesh eating ghouls. We managed to send a boy named Mercury for help from the Church and the Empire's army, but I doubt it will ever arrive. If he still lives, I have instructed him to see that this reaches you, and if you are holding this letter in your hand, then I may at least die knowing that you know that I am truly sorry for driving you away and hope that the next life is kinder to you and I._

_With all of my love and heart,_

_C._

Jaune Belmont held the paper desperately, deep in thought. That had been almost a month ago now since he had received the letter, and he had heard nothing from the town of "Cordova" the messenger boy, Mercury had informed him of, since he had left. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep, bar the dreamless periods where exhaustion occasionally overwhelmed him. Every waking thought was consumed with finding her, dead, or worse. Her research into the alchemy stones was frankly an obsession of hers, and a source of many disputes towards the end of their time with one another. An idée fixe that had consumed her almost the entire time he'd known her.

The mania it evoked within her been more than a regular source of worry for him in the past, watching her rife through hastily written notes of magic and dark arts while she thought him asleep in their days travelling together. He knew _why _she sought them of course, or at least he thought he did. But the road to hell had always been paved with the good intent of would-be sinners.

At least, thus was the view of his now former tutors.

The rain had died down, at least momentarily and his destination was still some distance through the valley yet. The recent attacks had, according to Cinder's letter, forced the people of the town to lock and barricade their gates at nightfall, so even if by some divine intervention, he did arrive there intact, he would be trapped outside until daybreak, with no way to reach Cinder even if she _was _still within the town walls, to say nothing of the fact he had no weapons save a few daggers, two bottles of holy water procured from a village monk, and of course,the whip.

Quietly making the sign of the cross, he brought his free hand to his waist, his frost-numbed fingers making contact with a gnarled and blackened leather whip. He closed them around it with all the strength he could muster, praying that the Lord would forgive him his iniquities. It had been a gift from Cinder bestowed upon him long ago, and whilst he knew of the heretical nature of its origin, imbued with magicks and sorceries most offensive to the Holy One and his church, Jaune had kept it for many years, hidden from even those who were to be his brothers in Christ and battle. Whether it was sentiment, or some other desire, he simply could not bear to part with it, even if he had never been able to bring himself to use it.

It was one thing to simply hold something of that nature, but soon, he feared, he may need to call upon its powers and more if he meant to protect that which he loved.

As one who had desired in the not too distant past to fight Saracen heathens in the Holy Land in the name of the Lord and the Holy Sepulchre, this was no easy sacrifice to make. He himself, no matter how he tried, could not reconcile himself to the papal doctrine. Surely, if used to save innocent lives, magic and alchemy were nothing to be feared? But within his heart, he knew those he had called brothers, the bishops and holy men, would be deaf to any entreaties he made. Just as they were when he had pleaded for permission to be here, to save innocents from the unholy, refusing to send even the minutest aid. Either out of fear or unwillingness, even when he had begged at the knee, they remained steadfast; The Saracens were the priority, and they had no time for one small town or two, or the opinions of a mere squire, save a few prayers as an afterthought.

Jaune snarled at the idea. Did the Lord not teach that "faith without works is dead"? What good is prayer, without action? What would the purpose be for fighting for Christendom abroad, if it meant abandoning one's neighbours to their horrible fate? It was then that he came upon an unfortunate truth. So many of those whom he trusted, revered, and sought guidance from, cared more for the affairs of men, that those of Christ, picking and choosing their principles as one would flowers in a field. The thought made him sick to his stomach,

And so, in his fury, he had done something rash, forswearing his chance to become a holy knight, with all the boons the title entailed spitting in the collective eye of many who would have granted him renown, honour and glory, things he had long sought after.

Jaune could not help but wonder if he had truly made the right decision nonetheless. He had been taught that only a fool is sure in his convictions, and this was a truth he had indeed found evident over the years. Was it Christ's compassion that guided him, or his attachment to _her_? And what of the whip? To wield such infernal power, even if for just cause , could mean, at best, excommunication, banishment from all forms of civilization. The alternative of course, would be death, either at the hands of the demons, or the Church, to say nothing of what may happen to his immortal soul.

'Enough.' He groused under his breath. All of this debate would mean nothing if he lost his wits here. Let the future fall where it may, if he did not focus his attentions on the present, he may not draw breath long enough to be concerned by such dilemmas. And neither would Cinder, or the innocents of Cordova. And if he failed here, maybe even the rest of Valachia.

With this sobering thought, the Belmont turned his thoughts elsewhere. He would _not_ fail. He had no other choice.

The mountain town he had travelled from in the early hours of the morning was too far away to turn around for the night even without the various mud pits, narrow bridges and other obstacles that had delayed him in daylight hours with even scarcer visibility. It was unbelievably frustrating but he knew full well he had little else in the way of options. So he resigned to rest where he was, resolving to make headway as soon as dawn's light broke through the darkness. He prayed that she had remained hidden, and that she had not succumbed to her fiery nature and done something brash in the meantime. Whilst he had not laid eyes on her for many years, he knew her better than to think she would ever take any challenge or threat lying down, and he certainly had the bruises and scars to validate his judgement.

Bundling up the thick furs that a kind trader had been generous enough to provide him for his journey, he laid them out as best he could in the small space, and wrapped them around himself, prepared to settle down to wait out the hours until daylight.

In spite of his misgivings and fears of what may happen should his vigilance falter, he soon closed his eyes, lulled by the warmth of his coverings and the exhaustion of the day's journey, allowing himself to fall into Somnus' peaceful embrace. And then, he dreamed.

* * *

Manor D'Arc, Normandy: Years earlier….

_The blonde boy ran through the meadow of barley, laughing with childish glee. The scorching summer sun at its zenith, far above him in the cloudless sky. A cool wind blew gently as he sprinted, feeling the wind against his face as he sprinted towards the horizon._

_He had escaped his borish tutors for the day, something he was rather proud of, and had once again set off seeking adventure, barrelling through the tall grasses. Saphron, or worse, Mother, would track him down sooner or later and drag him to Father, but Jaune D'Arc was an adventurer that lived in the moment, damnit! There was no joy to be found in reciting Latin credos, being forced to read classical literature aloud for the umpteenth time, or having to sit through Father Dorin's torturous diatribes that the young D'Arc scion would bet his father's entire treasury, could wear on the patience of even the holy saints. So he could be forgiven after several hours, he reasoned, for taking advantage of the wide open window, and Dorin's utter lack of awareness once he started lecturing?_

_It had taken mere moments to make the decision; Trapped in the manor's grand library with thick mind-dulling tomes, stifling heat and a methusulan abbot determined to bore him into an early grave, or to run free in the open air?_

_Jaune's feet had crossed the threshold of the windowsill, and had touched down on the ground before he had even finished asking himself the query, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him into the crop fields, knowing that they would prove the best cover._

_Finally thinking himself safe from his imagined pursuers, his adrenaline at last depleted, he collapsed near the edge of the field's boundaries. The ground was softer than her expected, despite the days of harsh sun, and the warmth of the soil beneath him would have proved more than enough to lull him into a nap. Or it would have, if he hadn't seen the dried crimson splotches on the ground, and the sudden smell of rusted iron that assailed his senses._

_Fear paralysed him. Had some wild beast been hunting here? Was it still nearby? He almost thought to shout for help before his percipience returned, To do so would assuredly lead the beast here faster than any help could arrive, and he had no weapons with which to fend it off. But as he lay there fighting a wave of internal terror, his fear began to give way to the very thing that has ailed children for millennia, and doubtless many more hereafter; curiosity. He had never seen a beast before. The dead ones that Father occasionally brought home on his hunting trips perhaps,usually roaming wolves, but never a live one. This could be his chance!_

_With anticipation and youthful exuberance, he began to follow the increasing large blood trail, crawling on his belly. It wouldn't do to alert the feral animal to his presence. Making slow progress through the grasses, the young child moved carefully, making every effort not to disturb the crop as he did so._

_It took him little time before he eventually reached the the final vestiges at the edge of the boundary, marked by his forefathers with a mighty oak tree. Jaune groaned. The beast, if there ever was one, was long gone, and all he had for his troubles were ruined garments, and more than likely, an even bigger yelling at from Saphron. Mumbling under his breath , he used the trunk for support as he slowly rose to his feet, running his hands through his mussed blonde hair to shake any stray ears of barley loose._

_While he was doing so however…_

_Something wet and viscous landed on the back of his hand. Jaune paid it no heed at first, simply preparing to turn the way he came in search of adventure elsewhere. Despite that, something within him made him pause, taking one last look at the blood trail's end. It seemed… different than the rest of the evidence he had seen, but he could not yet say how.. Curiosity again began to consume him. As the inquisitive youngster went to take a closer look, he made a horrifying discovery._

_This patch of blood before him was __**fresh. **__Theories and conspiracies tore through his head until another revelation came upon him. Trails do not simply vanish into the ether. If this was indeed the end, there should be a carcass, right? Or at least something. Unless…_

_Slowly, and with the resignation of a man at the gallows, the boy raised his head and his eyes skyward into the boughs of the great tree.__The last thing Jaune D'Arc saw was raven hair, and a glint of silver steel._

* * *

Belmont awoke with a start to darkness, distant screams and the smell of burning flesh on the wind. How long had he been asleep?! The spooked horses brayed frantically, attempting to buck themselves free from their harness. Rapidly shaking off his furs and the vestiges of sleep, Jaune scrambled for the reins, snapping them audibly in the hopes that the sudden noise would sharply bring them both to heel.

Unfortunately, this did not work as planned. The stallions bolted, nearly throwing him clear from the wagon as they galloped. With the luck of Lucifer himself, the young man was able to grab the edge of the cart, leaving himself hanging precariously from the side as the panicked horses hurtled along the forest trail. Shoulders and muscles cried in protest as he struggled for purchase on the wet wooden frame. the horses charged along the forest path relentlessly, every bump and ridge the cart's wheels hit on the uneven forest floor coming tenuously close to shaking him loose. As he had begun to make progress, the animals suddenly veered hard to the left, sending the wagon sailing to the right and slamming Jaune's back against a tree trunk with a solid crunch.

He cried out in pain, feeling the bark splinter behind him, ripping innumerable gashes in his cloak, as fabric and flesh gave way to sharp, solid wood. It was through sheer will and God's grace alone, that he was able to keep his grip, his resolve strengthened by his began to steadily use his upper body to raise himself, narrowly avoiding being struck by more branches as he finally managed to hoist his body back into the seat.

Swearing, he tried yanking the reins again, hard to no avail. The smell of charred flesh now choked the air; and Jaune was slowly beginning to fear the worst. He had hoped he had imagined such things, his sleep addled mind simply concocting nightmares. But there was no mistaking it now. Even through the rain, he could make out the acrid smoke, and red haze around the town walls in the distance, despite the heavy downpour and limited visibility. In short fashion, the tall trees had been left behind,as he raced now through open grassland towards the burning town.

The hairs on his forearms unexpectedly began to stand on end. Crimson lightning swirled in the air around him, and the stench of death and sulfur in the air grew ever more potent.

Survival instincts kicked into gear and every muscle in the warrior's body tensed. Jaune caught a glint of metal in the pale moonlight before his body moved sharply of its own volition, ducking low in his seat.

Mere fractions of a second later, a scythe shot out of the blackness, spinning at a lightning quick pace. The deadly revolving blade sundered the air above his head, cleaving the canvas roof clean off the wagon, and narrowly missing the heads of both Jaune and the horses. The mounts, now even more terrified, picked up speed, trying ever harder to escape their harness and flee to safety. The rickety cart screamed under the immense strain, and it took all he had to keep the wretched beasts on course. At last, he did so, snarling with exertion and fatigue.

'**How unfortunate…'**

The feminine ethereal voice carried clearly through the roar of the rain and the howling of the wind, light hearted amusement evident in its almost playful tone. In the blink of an eye, Jaune released the reins; The horses had no need of them, their fear keeping them firmly on course, and clasped his fist tightly around one of the silver knives in his bandolier, scanning the shadows and clouds for the unearthly speaker.

Shrugging off the tattered remains of his ratty cloak, he rose to his feet gingerly, anticipating another attack. He peered forwards into the darkness desperately attempting to make out a shape through the torrent and biting winds.

The gyrating scythe, rotating rapidly through the air could still be heard through the darkness, growing louder as it revolutioned in the direction whence it had come, followed by the hollow thud of metal meeting bone.

'...**That the hour of thy death draws nigh, mortal.'**

A skeletal figure descended from the dark skies and hovered before him, clad in a black cloak and hood and wielding a large demonic scythe, easily keeping pace with the careering mounts.

In the hollow blackness of the skull's eye sockets, angry pinpricks glowed crimson red, though whether with anger, or sadistic glee, he knew not. But he certainly wasn't about to allow this unholy creature stand in his path or passively become a player in whatever nefarious schemes the darkspawn had dreamed up. Anger and frustration finally boiled over with an intensity that frightened even Jaune. His words were as frigid as the howling wind around them and cut through the air, sharp as the weapon in his fist.

"Begone, Fiend! I care not who you are, but there's no quarter for the likes of you or your ilk in this world! Stand aside, or be cut down!"

The creature snarled in contempt, incensed that a ephemeral creature would dare speak thusly to her.

'**Insolence! You will regret those words!'**

With a wave of her free hand, her scythe began to move, to cleave his impertinent tongue from his head, no doubt. But Jaune was ready for her.

He flung the knife with great force, its point striking true into the crimson light the deathly creature called an eye. Despite its roar of pain, the blow was not enough to stop the path of her weapon completely. The curved blade sailed off course, carving through the wagon's harness with deadly ease, leaving him just enough time to leap forward onto the back of one of the stallions, as the remains of the wain shattered apart, crumbling into wooden splinters and cast away into the muddy grasses.

The horse next to him took the opportunity to flee, taking its newfound freedom to diverge back into the darkness of the woods with great haste. Jaune barely had the time to lament the loss of his shelter and supplies, before the iniquitous spectre regained herself. If her anger was a bonfire before, she was now a blazing inferno, consumed with the sole desire of stripping him of his flesh, and ripping out his still beating heart. But her opponent was far beyond those fears, as he attempted to wrestle his mount under control, without the privilege of reins, stirrups or saddle. Whilst the silver may have had little effect, and he had no desire to waste a commodity as powerful or rare as holy water without the certainty of success, he had yet one more card to play. But fear was staying his hand. Was he truly willing to succumb to _that?_

'**Filthy dreck! I will suffer you no more!'**

An eldritch rune materialised between them, radiating menace and a bright crimson hue. His skin crawled, repulsed at the sheer scope of malevolence emanating from the infernal glyph. Two words were all that appeared in his mind.

Dark magic. In that instant he knew what must be done..There was no other recourse but to fight fire with fire .It may have sounded nonsensical to any right minded Christian , but amid his tumultuous feelings of fear and pain, he felt a calm wash over him, as he slowly reached for the whip on his waist.

'**Die!'**

A giant Avernal skull burst forth from the runic seal, roaring with savagery and bloodlust. It shot towards him, the screams of the damned emanating from its gaping maw. It raced nearer and nearer, threatening to consume mount and rider both.

Jaune stared it down, whip in hand, eyes and mind as calm as a still sea, as it came closer. Rearing back his arm, he raised his weapon to strike down the illusionary evil. And strike he did.

The sharp crack of a whip cut through the wails, the storm, and the screeching winds.

The whip struck true, carving in a brutal downward arc, and he felt a surge of power flow through his veins. The leather burned with arcane fire as it tore through the phantom skull, dispelling the demonic chimera into little more than wisps of light and coloured smoke.

'**Impossible! How did you-!'**

Jaune did not trust himself to answer, even if he had been coherent enough for speech. He looked on in awe and morbid fascination at his hand, clutching the leather whip fiercely, it's length still ablaze with crimson flames. They lapped at his fingertips incessantly, and he awaited searing pain, but it would never come. He watched in shock as the flames burned brightly under the moonlight hue, dancing in his palm irregardless of the rain. Was this the dark power he had feared so, for all these years? The evil that his brethren had sought to destroy?

Still wielding the coiled weapon in his grasp, he barely noticed the flames dispel themselves, nor the incensed snarls and mutterings of his unholy adversary.

'**Stronger than than he described… So that is his scheme then.'***

The young warrior was in no humour for games this night. His awe and introspection quickly gave way to the return of his wrath, as he demanded answers from the creature who had attacked him.

'Speak sense or not at all, demon! Who do you speak of, and how did you know of my coming?!'

She cackled madly. The sound of her crazed yet regal laughter was as disturbing as her vile aura and appearance itself.

'**I suspect you will find out in good time, insect. No matter. When next we meet, t'will not be so easy!'**

With black-hearted glee ringing in the air, the spectre faded into a dark mist. Leaving warrior and his mount in solitude, fast coming upon their destination.

The beating of hooves upn the muddy ground, and the roar of the rains were all that could be heard, as Jaune's wits raced with query after query.

He could hear the grunts and howls of the monsters now, close to the walls as he was. Looking upon the once beautiful settlement, he knew the situation was worse than he had feared in his most horrifying nightmares. After a solid month of nightly raids and sieges, the children of the night had at last breached Cordova's pored through the rubble into the exposed town, their snarls of malicious joy, and howls of mirth carrying on the winds. Infernal bat like creatures rained fire from the skies in all their unholy splendour. The caterwauling shrieks of terror and cries of the innocent deafened him, perhaps even more so than those of the vermin. He could make the shadows of colossal golems within the fortifications, their forms shrouded in smoke as they wrought carnage on what few survivors the wolves and their compatriots deigned to spare.

Jaune's glare narrowed, and he spurred his mount with more vigour than ever before. Righteous fury clouded him in a scarlet shroud as he rode towards the blazing ruin. The godless darkspawn would know fear this night. He swore it. Every innocent soul that went to the Lord this day would be avenged, if it took every breath from his body. He prayed only that Cinder could hold on, if just a little longer.

Now was no time for answers. There was work to be done.

All the while, watchful erubescent eyes oversaw the young man's determined approach, unbeknownst to all, but their owners, ready to witness destiny unfold.


End file.
